


A work of art and a weapon, a delight and a defence

by crookedspoon



Series: nothing more than any artists dreams [4]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Blow Jobs, Crossdressing, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, M/M, POV Prokopenko, POV Second Person, Role Reversal, disgustingly adorable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 09:36:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12296433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: Kavinsky is a lot more taken with what Proko wants to show him than Proko would have expected.





	A work of art and a weapon, a delight and a defence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [owltrocious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owltrocious/gifts).



> For Kinktober Day #7 "Cross-dressing" and a touch of "Worship."
> 
> Not exactly how I imagined it turning out, but what can you do. Once again, barely managed to make the deadline. (If I'll ever manage to write a Kinktober fic _before_ its due date? Stay tuned.)

Your heart is pounding in your throat and you're already sweating through your sleeves.

This is a bad idea. You're regretting this already, even as you're clearing your throat to get his attention.

Lucky for you, it's a prized commodity.

This time, K's attention is divided between two canvases, both roughly the same size. One depicts a landscape in the style of Rubens, the other is a mess of colors, no doubt a manifestation of his frustration. When he couldn't make something the way he saw it in his head, he would fling paint at it or kick in the whole canvas and reduce it to kindling, depending on his mood at the time.

You encouraged him to have a second canvas ready to take his frustration out on, so his work up until that point wouldn't have to suffer. Before that, he often flung gobs of paint at the walls and tried out new designs there, but you convinced him that he would have an easier time selling the canvases, if he wanted to. There's always someone in the market for abstract pieces of art or unfinished sketches by a young artist on the rise. Makes them feel like connoisseurs. Who knows, these works might be worth ten times, twenty times as much by the time their career took off.

K's hasn't yet, but you're working on it.

You say his name, but he doesn't react to you. He is that entranced.

Ordinarily, you wouldn't want to disturb him while he's working, but he's been touching up the same spot for hours. You feel like you need to distract him somehow, take his mind off its current task so it can return to it with renewed vigor later on.

And also: "I have something I want to show you."

"I'm busy, go away," he says around the brush end he's chewing. There's oil paint on his lips and if you were to kiss him now, you're sure his mouth would taste like turpentine.

"Looks done to me."

"My signature's missing."

Whenever Kavinsky forges an artwork – and he seems to be doing that more often of late, thanks to this shady dude who calls himself the Gray Man (you've often wondered what the fuck is wrong with him? You like wearing pastels, but you're not going around introducing yourself by your choice of clothing colors. That would be ridiculous. But this dude is intense and you get a bad vibe from him, as you'd expect of someone operating on the black market, so you say nothing, not even to K.) – he wants to work a clever signature into it, a private joke that is both anachronistic and would pass the scrutiny of an art historian.

Part of you is appeased that it's business as usual with him, but there's an edge to the way he's slapping paint onto the canvas that tells you he's hopped up on something and would probably repeat the same motions for the rest of the night without coming up with anything original.

Time to step in. "Work a spacecraft into it or something."

You want to try something, but you're not exactly sure how he'd take it, sober or otherwise. He _was_ pretty into it last time, but you hadn't figured out what it meant to you then.

Now, everything is different. K could destroy you with a single sneer. You exhale slowly, smooth your hands over your hips and take comfort in the lack of a waistband.

It's going to be okay, you tell yourself. K is not going to be disgusted by you no matter what. He's always been there for you, surely this time won't be any different.

He's still not looking at you.

He's considering the rolling hills in front of him.

"What is it about spacecrafts that make you think of me?" he muses.

"The fact that I want to shoot you into space with them sometimes?"

He mock-gasps and tilts his head toward you as he says, "Now the truth is coming ou—"

The brush he's been chewing on falls out of his mouth and he tries to catch it before it falls onto the floor and leaves another stain there. It's adorably clumsy and not something you're used to seeing with do.

"Fuckin' hell?" he says, staring at you and ignoring the brush at his feet.

You grin at him sheepishly, your fingers balling into the fabric of your skirt. Here it goes, the moment you've both been dreading and inviting. 

His eyes subject you to a once-over and you cannot decide if it's a leer or a sneer. It could be anything. Not knowing is the worst, and it's chewing you over. (Oh God, you thought you were brave for doing this but your nerves are abandoning you, and you're locked between a lifetime of failed expectations and Kavinsky's deliberately unreadable gaze.)

Your stomach is in a knot, but you don't run. You tilt your chin up and meet his eyes. It takes everything you have and your arms are trembling by your sides, but you're not going to back down. It was his idea first. He should be able to deal with the fallout.

"Fuck," he says again and reaches towards you. But his fingers are coated in paint and there's no way you'd let them anywhere near your new dress.

"Nuh-uh!" you say and escape his greedy digits. You spent entirely too many hours sewing this thing to have him ruin it already. 

You toss him his baby oil to get the paint off and poke around his work station for a dry rag. Once you find something suitable enough to wipe his hands on, you pinch it between your thumb and index finger and hand it to him, making sure to hold it as far away from your dress as possible.

He cleans each of his fingers methodically, mechanically, without ever taking his eyes off you.

You wonder what he's thinking.

"Can I touch you now?" he asks as soon as he's scrubbed his right pinky and let the rag fall to the floor, next to the brush. You imagine what else might be following during the rest of the night – his shirt, his pants, your dress.

You take his hands into your own and inspect them, turning them over and running your fingers along his knuckles. You adore his hands – their strength and their potential. You adore what they can create and destroy, you adore how they can make you feel.

They're clean enough now that you don't have to worry about him leaving any stains in your dress (yet). So you nod and lift his fingers to your mouth to kiss them.

"Fuck, you're cute," he breathes, as if thinking it for the first time, and perhaps he is. His knuckles spread over your cheeks, twisting your face this way and that.

"You're acting like you've never seen anyone wearing makeup before." You laugh weakly and hope your eyeliner hasn't smudged since the last time you looked into the mirror.

"Do you have before and after photos?" he asks, and his warm fingers leave your face to rummage in his pockets. He fishes out his phone and takes a picture of you before you can object.

"K!" You grab his phone and attempt to wrestle it away from him. Your struggle brings you way too close to him, chest against chest, hands poised as if you were dancing instead of struggling for an electronic device. "You're not posting this online."

He snakes one hand around your waist and holds you even closer. "I wouldn't dream of doing anything without your permission."

You snort. "Liar."

"Let me prove it to you." His breath is hot against your neck, but you cannot grow weak now.

"You've proved time and again that I cannot trust you."

"And yet you're still here." He barks a laugh and bites the top of your shoulder. You tense, fingers digging into his skin, hips rocking against him.

Could you be any more pathetic?

"Let me make it up to you?" he asks, cups your chin, and then he does something you never thought you'd witness: he sinks down to his knees in front of you.

"K, what are you—?" 

His head rubs against your pelvis and just like that you lose the ability to speak. You looks up at you, turned on and adoring.

Your fingers curl into his shoulders, battling with yourself about whether to haul him up and have him make love to you, or whether to leave him on his knees and see where this is heading.

His hands run up and down your striped stockings, admiring the feel of them, and a desperate noise escapes him.

"How are you so perfect?" he breathes and it's a needle to your chest.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" You know what you look like, and 'desirable' is not it. He's mocking you. But it's so goddamn hard to be anything other than aroused when his face is so close to the erection you can't go on ignoring.

"Dead serious, babe." His fingers brush the tops of your thighs. "You even shaved. I cannot handle this."

You yelp when he hitches up your skirt to disappear beneath it. His fingertips tease your thighs and tug your stockings lower.

"I cannot handle _you._ "

He's saying what you yourself have been feeling about him all along. You wonder how much of it is rehearsed, how much of it he thinks you want to hear, and how much of it is actually true.

He nudges his nose along the soft skin of your inner thigh, up to where your aching boner is barely concealed by your cotton panties. His breath is tickling you, but his mouth at the base of your dick is making you forget everything.

You gather up your skirt so you can see his face again, and your gaze is hot and heavy when it falls on him. Your fingers card through his hair, as if hoping to take his focus off of you somewhat, thereby alleviating some of your own.

"I wanna fuck in that dress," Kavinsky murmurs as he mouths you from base to tip, and it's as much a question as a statement of intent, and what are you supposed to say to that?

"You tore the last one."

Okay, it's not exactly sexy talk, but it still rankles you that he did it, even as he's trying to get you off. You had to spend the whole night fixing the dress to have it done in time for the runway. Luckily no one noticed the stains you couldn't get out on the inside of the petticoat.

"I'll be careful this time? Pretty please?"

His expression is so hopeful and earnest you do not dare dash it to pieces.

But even if you'd wanted to, you'd probably have changed your mind the moment he tugged your panties down and pressed a sloppy kiss to whatever he found beneath.

His mouth moves along your length, leaving more kisses against it and suckling the skin beneath the tip. Your fingers disappear in his hair. Your entire self-awareness probably disappears somewhere between his fingers and his lips, and there is nothing you can do about it.

Whatever you had expected of your encounter, this was certainly not it. You had hoped K would be aroused, sure, but you'd thought he'd throw you over the nearest surface to plow into your ass and tear at your dress. Instead, he's going down on you a lot gentler than you thought he was even capable of.

Your insides pool around your knees when he drags his tongue across the tip of your dick, then engulfs it with his entire mouth.

He'd asked you how you are so perfect, but right this moment there is nothing more perfect than him, his mouth on your dick, his hands on your ass, his breath on your skin.

If you'd known wearing a dress was all it would take to make him drop everything and pay attention to you again, you'd have done it a lot sooner. That much is certain.

You didn't get to say what you wanted to say, but you got to gauge his reaction, and maybe coming out to him is not going to be as terrible as you've been picturing it.

You're still uncertain whether to tell him anything at all, given how insensitive he can be, but you're stupidly in love with him and refuse to imagine he'd reject you. It's there, in the back of your mind, but hope never dies, and going by the way Kavinsky has been looking at you, it might not be as bad as you fear.

You just gotta trust him. Even if he's burned you time and time again. (Oh God, it's gonna be exactly as bad as you fear, isn't it?)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the poem "Astigmatism" by Amy Lowell.


End file.
